Mash
by alwaysflying
Summary: Mark and Mimi argue over the logistics of the favorite game of prepubescent girls.


"Roger sucks," complains Mimi loudly, throwing her bag down onto the loft's sole couch as she enters. It is eleven-thirty, and she has enough of a buzz to be annoyed by the simple fact that, yes, Roger is sleeping not-here again. Not-here can be anywhere, and seems to be Roger's sleeping place of choice nearly twice a week. All Mimi knows for sure about not-here is that it definitely doesn't involve another girl, because, well, if it did, Roger would have spilled the beans by now. He's never been particularly good at keeping secrets.

A blond, pale head pokes itself out of the bedroom. "Hi," says Mark cheerfully. "Roger's…"

"Not here," Mimi declares.

Mark nods, almost blushing. "Yeah. And I'm bored out of my mind."

"Camera problems?"

His blush enormously obvious, Mark nods. "Yeah… I lent it to Collins so he could film one of his classes for the video they're sending to incoming freshmen, and when he was done he gave it to Joanne, who was going to give it to me. And, um, well, Joanne swears she didn't mean for Maureen to get to it, but… well…"

"Ouch," sympathizes Mimi, who can only imagine what must have happened to it.

Mark nods. "Yeah. So it's Collins' fault, so he's paying for the damages because I threatened him with a knife, which coincidentally happened to be the very instrument April used to slit her wrists."

Slightly nauseated, Mimi casts a distasteful glance on the half-open cutlery drawer. "…And you still _use _it?" she demands.

"Can't tell which one it was," Mark says with a shrug.

Mimi shudders violently.

"Hey," says Mark brightly, "you wanna do something? Like – no, not like _that_! I mean, just… something to occupy us until Roger gets home."

"_If _Roger gets home," Mimi mutters. Then, plastering a smile onto her face, she shrugs. "Sure. Like what? If you suggest strip poker, I'm sorry, but – "

Mark hastily interjects, "No! I just meant a game – but not like that. Maybe… um… well, you pick one."

Mimi tries to recall the games of her childhood, unable to think of one she plays at this age that involves neither nudity nor drugs. At last, she selects, "Mash."

"What?"

"Mash," Mimi repeats. "It's this game kids play. Do you have a pen?"

Soon enough, Mark is fully educated on the rules of Mash, which turns out to be America's most commonly-played game among prepubescent girls. The rules, according to Mimi, are that several columns are devised that would affect the game player's fate in life. For example, things such as "husband," "car," "income" and "area of residence" are written down. From there, the person whose life this is intended to reflect will select two possible outcomes for each category, and Mark will choose one for each – usually one that would be particularly upsetting to Mimi, just to mix it up a bit.

Once all the answers have been written down, Mark will think of a number in his head between one and twenty-five, and Mimi will guess it. The difference between Mark's number and Mimi's will be the interval between every answer he crosses out, until eventually there is only one response remaining per category. That, then, will supposedly reflect Mimi's future life.

"Okay," says Mark. His pen is poised at the paper, which happens to be Roger's notebook. "Husband."

Mimi giggles. "Um, Roger," she says immediately. "Duh." The empty space beneath Roger's name glares at her, and she flushes and admits, "Benny."

"I don't know what you see in him," Mark declares, but writes the name down anyway. An evil smile spreads across his face immediately afterward, and beneath "Benjamin Coffin III," Mark deftly prints his own name. "Mark Cohen."

Mimi shudders. "Sorry, Marky," she says, "but you are just not my taste."

"Too bad," says Mark unsympathetically. "Next. Career."

With a roll of her eyes, Mimi responds, "Dancer."

"And?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. Singer?"

Mark writes both answers, and adds: "Prostitute."

Mimi informs him that she tried such a career before, loathed it, and would like for Mark to please not mention it again. Mark snickers. "Mimi, you whore," he teases. Mimi playfully slaps his arm, and Mark quiets down.

"Residence," Mark says. "I'm gonna write my answer for this first, okay?" he asks, and does so. "Suburbia" stares up at Mimi, choking her like a vodka shot swallowed too quickly.

"Asshole," Mimi growls. "Um… write Manhattan and East Village."

Mark raises his practically nonexistent eyebrows. "Mimi, that's cheating," he tells her, trying to sound like a fair player who always follows the rules.

Mimi shrugs. "I've been doing that since I was eight," she tells him, and proceeds to the next category.

"Income," Mark reads aloud.

Dictates Mimi, "Enough to pay for rent, AZT, food and condoms." Mark scrawls it all down in his tiny handwriting, followed by Mimi's next suggestion: "Enough to pay for AZT and condoms."

"No rent?" laughs Mark as he writes down his own suggestion, which is "not applicable." Mimi swats at him with the notebook, but Mark deflects the blows by holding up his hands and mock-whimpering. "Leave me alone," he protests half-heartedly.

Mimi giggles. "Okay, next."

Mark rests his pen under the category "Sex life," which is typically excluded from the games of preadolescents. "Eh. Mimi? Scale of one to ten?"

"Twenty-five and fifty," she replies, not missing a beat. Mark snickers.

"Well, for that," he says smugly, "you'll get 'not applicable.'"

"You wouldn't dare!" hisses Mimi, not entirely joking. Mark laughs, leaving the answer as it stands. "Oh, fuck you, Mark."

Mark chortles. "Is that an offer?"

Mimi looks skeptically at Mark's name beneath the "husband" category. "You know what?" she asks. "I think we should just count 'em up now."

"Ha, ha," Mark sneers. "Kay, got my number." Seventeen.

Mimi takes a deep breath. "Let's see… eight?"

"Seventeen," says Mark. "So… nine. All right, I'll get your answers. You – there's a beer bottle in the fridge."

An eyebrow quirked, Mimi giggles. "Can't get the cap off?"

"Fuck you," Mark snaps. "Just fucking open it."

Mimi shrugs. "Sure, but you'll have to give me a complimentary ten sips." Mark merely glares at her, beginning to count up the answers.

"Got it!" Mark proclaims. The beer bottle beside him is half-empty already, and he reads off, "Mimi Marquez will live in an apartment in Manhattan."

"Duh," sneers Mimi jokingly.

Mark gives her a look, and moves on. "You'll be a dancer."

"Duh," she repeats.

"Mimi, shut up," Mark interjects. "Please. With an income enough to support rent, AZT, food, and condoms – "

"Whoo! Go me! Guess I'm getting more tips than usual, then," Mimi comments.

Mark rolls his eyes. " – you will have a sex life of twenty-five on a scale of one to ten – "

"YEAH!" Mimi screams, overexcited or overreacting or overdramatizing the moment.

Mark sighs. "And you'll marry me. So _ha_, Marquez. Shows what you know." He smirks, and even adds to this by sticking his tongue out. "Pfft."

Mimi winces. "Twenty-five, huh? I just may have to ask Maureen."

"Or don't," Mark suggests, and takes a long sip from the rest of the beer bottle, emptying it and flinging it out the open window. (There is a shriek from the street below, but Mark knows it didn't hit anyone because it never has before, and he does this daily or so. People usually choose not to walk on this side of the street for this very reason, and Mark can't say he blames them. _He _never leaves the loft during drinking parties.) "You could find out for yourself."

Again, Mimi shudders. "Mark, I think what it's saying is that I'll marry you and have an affair with Benny, who, yes, is about a twenty-five."

"No!" Mark insists. "It does _not_!" With his teeth, Mark struggles to open a new glass bottle, this one containing the "good" champagne that costs ten dollars as long as the buyer propositions the salesman. "And besides, I've slept with Benny. He's nothing special."

Mimi winces. "I did not need to know that," she informs Mark solemnly. "And he so is. Well, were you top or bottom?"

Unfazed, Mark replies, "Top."

"That explains it," Mimi says decisively. "The man is a stubborn asshole. Was he crying?"

"Whimpering," Mark admits. "So was I, actually."

Mimi snorts. "Thanks, Mark, that's a really great image I've got now." She rolls her eyes. "Anyways, listen, you're _wrong_. This game, it's about reading between the lines."

Mark cackles. "You are _not _explaining to me the inner workings of the game of prepubescent girls."

"I am, actually," Mimi informs him. "And I'm telling you, it's supposed to inspire _creativity_. And infidelity, because how loyal are girls these days?"

Thinking of Maureen, Mark crosses his arms over his chest and begrudgingly says that he is willing to admit that, yes, girls are untrustworthy bitches who should all be shot. Mimi winces. "Even me, Marky-love?" she mock-coos.

Mark snorts. "Definitely you," he grumbles.

"You wanna go to bed, then?" Mimi asks casually.

Mark springs up. "You're kidding."

"Duh," snorts Mimi. She snatches up her Mash paper. "Mark, you liar," she says incredulously. "It says here I married Roger! You crossed out your own name and then circled it anyway!"

Mark shrugs. "Artistic license," he proclaims.

Disbelieving and utterly bewildered, Mimi ruffles Mark's hair like an older sister might do to her younger brother. She retreats into the room, yelling, "If Roger gets here, tell him he can feel free to join me!"

"Can I be Roger?" Mark mutters. It isn't that he has a crush on Mimi, but rather that he is bored and mildly intoxicated and sick of fussing over everyone, and besides, he hasn't had sex since Maureen. And she, contrary to popular opinion, is really not that good.

Mark hears the shower turn on, hears Mimi's bare feet slide across the floor and step in, and hears her shriek as the water turns suddenly freezing and slightly green. "Mimi!" he yells. "How many times do I have to remind you? Don't shower when people in other apartments are flushing their puke down the toilet!"

Mimi yells back, "Fuck you, Mark!" even though she knows that he is absolutely correct. By drinking-party commencement time (usually about ten), the water is frozen with toilet-flushings and the occasional clump of vomit. Mark and Roger have long since learned to shower in the morning, but Mimi dances all evening and claims that she can't sleep when she's sweaty, and she's used to grosser things in a shower. (However, Mark knows, that is truly not the case; she has no problem getting herself all sweaty rolling around with Roger in bed all night. Besides, nothing is grosser than bits of puke flying around a shower.)

"Your funeral!" Mark calls, and shrugs.

A slow smile spreads across Mark's face as he nestles up in the shabby blanket. "That's the one thing Mash doesn't cover," he muses. "How do you die?" He peers over to the bathroom door. "It just covers all the things you can change yourself. So what's the point?"

Some people need prodding, Mark realizes, and wonders if this means Mimi will crawl into bed with him. "Mash can change a life," he mumbles. "Who knew?"


End file.
